Fibromyalgia

I miss him.

Two years ago, your nerves started vomiting their innards into your barely structured sentences
They crept into our late night conversations of physics and misanthropy
Dreadlocked Aleister Crowley sadly puffing on his last cigarette
Telling me of his woes and I, my optimism
Pressing fast forward on the tape
We have matching tattoos and complimenting scars
But he did as he willed
And he vanished into the same smoke that filled his collapsing lungs